


The Letter

by MsLadySmith



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Canon Divergence - The Lying Detective, Cocaine, Drug Use, Gen, Morphine, Possible Overdose, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-08
Updated: 2017-11-08
Packaged: 2019-01-31 00:26:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12664572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsLadySmith/pseuds/MsLadySmith
Summary: FB Writing Prompt: What were the contents of John's letter that Molly gave to Sherlock and what was the effect it had on him?Season 4, Episode 2 (The Lying Detective) does not happen.  Instead, this story happens.





	The Letter

Molly was pacing the living room, getting Rosie settled before her nap, when she looked out the window and saw the disheveled man coming toward the flat.  By the time she got to the door, his hand was already on the knocker.

"Hello, Molly."

"Sherlock!  What is wrong?"

He looked at his feet, unable to meet her curious gaze.  "I... I just wanted to see Rosie... "  reaching for the baby's soft blonde curls with a shaky hand.

Molly looked up into his eyes, and pulled Rosie away angrily.  His eyes were bloodshot, and his irises were impossibly thin.  _He's using again..._ "You are in no fit state to be around her, Sherlock," she said darkly. 

Molly put her hand on his chest, and firmly pushed him away from the door.  "John doesn't want to see you.  He doesn't want you around.  And if you're using again, I don't want you around either."

She quietly handed Sherlock a folded piece of paper.  "He asked me to give this to you, if you were to come round asking after him... and to tell you that he’d rather have anyone but you."

"I'm sorry, Sherlock."  Molly quietly closed the door, leaving Sherlock standing there, staring at the paper in his hand.

* * *

Sherlock walked back to 221b numbly, and walked up the steps to their - no, HIS - flat.  The sitting room was almost eeriely quiet.  He threw his coat onto the couch, and sat in his chair.  With a heavy sigh, he unfolded John's letter.

 

> _Sherlock,_
> 
> _I meant it when I said that you and Mary were the two people I loved most in the world._
> 
> _You were my best friend.  Then I saw you jump off the roof of St. Bart's... saw the blood and looked into your dead eyes.  I spent weeks sleeping on Lestrade's couch - I couldn't bear the thought of being in the flat without you in it.  Greg locked away my gun because he was afraid I'd use it.  He probably wouldn't have been wrong.  Then I met Mary._
> 
> _She saved me, she really did.  Marrying her was going to be my attempt at a 'new normal' - a life without Sherlock Holmes.  Then you showed up at the restaurant, 'not dead'... I almost couldn't decide whether I should hug you or strangle you.  Luckily, Mary pulled me off you._
> 
> _I was so angry when I found out that she was the one who shot you.  She had told me she liked you.  I guess that was just another lie she'd told me.  There were so many, as it turned out.  After Christmas, I was able to look past them, but they came back to haunt us, didn't they?_
> 
> _When you confronted Vivian Norbury at the aquarium, you laid into her hard, your deductions as precise as a scalpel.  Did you know she had a gun?  Did you even care?  Did you think that, since you were_ The Great Sherlock Holmes _, she wasn't going to take the shot?  Mary tried to stop you, but we both know that once you get on a roll like that, nothing short of a right hook is going to shut you up.  Or maybe a gunshot._
> 
> _That bullet was meant for you, Sherlock.  Dear God, I wish it had found its mark, instead of taking Mary.  I have dealt with your death before. It's hard, but I could have handled it.  But Mary was the love of my life... the mother of my daughter... my 'new normal'.  Now, thanks to you, I don't even have that anymore._
> 
> _If I never see you again, it will be too soon.  Do us all a favor, and stay away from what's left of my family._
> 
> _\- John Watson_

Sherlock sat, silently holding the letter, tears falling and soaking the paper. 

"What have I done?" he whispered to the universe.  The universe did not answer.

* * *

More than a week had passed since Molly saw Sherlock outside John's flat.  John's parents had offered to take Rosie for the weekend, and John jumped at the chance for a break.  Secretly, Molly was happy for the break, too.  Molly loved the baby, but between working night shifts at the morgue, and day shifts watching Rosie while John worked at the surgery, she needed some time to herself.

She was walking down the street Friday morning, lost in thought, and suddenly realized where her feet had taken her - Baker Street.  She looked at the black door, with its knocker slightly askew, and noticed that the door wasn't fully closed.  She pressed on it lightly, and it swung open.  _Not like Mrs. Hudson to leave the door open..._  She crept into the foyer.

"Sherlock?" she called out tentatively.

Only silence.

She set down her shopping bags, and shrugged off her coat.  "Sherlock, are you here?" she called out again, slightly louder this time. 

More silence.

She walked quietly up the stairs, and opened the door into Sherlock's sitting room, stunned by the scene before her.

The air was stale, like no one had opened a door or window in ages.  There was paper strewn everywhere.  The yellow smiley face he had spray-painted on the wallpaper (much to Mrs. Hudson's ire) seemed to have developed new bullet holes.  Looking into the kitchen, she saw an amazing jumble of chemistry glassware on the table - most of it nicked from St. Bart's, she was sure. 

Draped across the couch was Sherlock, his dressing gown hanging loosely on him.  One sleeve was rolled up, and a strip of rubber tubing lay across his bicep.  There was an empty hypodermic on the floor beside him.

"Shite!"  Molly ran to his side, dropping to her knees beside the couch. 

"Sherlock!  Sherlock!"  She slapped his pale face lightly, trying to get a response.  He was clammy.  She felt for his pulse - it was slow, but steady. 

Sherlock's eyes opened lazily, and he tried to focus on the voice in the room.  "Mmmollly?" he slurred.

"Yes, Sherlock, it's me.  What did you take?"

"Mmmmm."  Sherlock's eyes rolled around, as though he were trying to find something.  "Morphine... brain... loud..." he mumbled, and his head lolled to one side, his eyes closing again.

She pulled her phone out of her pocket, automatically starting to dial John's number, and froze.  Her shoulders slumped.  _No, John is most definitely NOT the right person to call right now._ She cleared the phone, and dialed again - this time, DI Lestrade.

"What is it, Molly?  I'm heading into a meeting with the Chief Inspector..."

"Greg... it's Sherlock."  The panic in her voice was evident. "I need your help."

Lestrade froze outside the Chief's door.  "Baker Street?"

"Yes.  Please hurry, Greg."

He ran to his desk and grabbed his coat and car keys.  "I'll be right there, Molly.  Should I bring an ambulance?"

"Yeah.  This looks bad, Greg... "

"Stay calm, Molly.  I'll be there in 10." The call disconnected.

* * *

Greg sat with Molly in the waiting area, his arm around her.  "He's going to be OK, Molly.  They'll take good care of him here."

"Do you think it was on purpose?  Was he trying to -"

Greg sighed.  "I don't know.  Maybe.  We'll know more when he comes 'round."

"I should never have given him that letter..."

"What letter?"

"He came around John's flat last week while I was sitting with Rosie.  John gave me a letter to give him, and said to tell him to stay away.  And..." Molly looked away from Greg, "... I told him John was right, because I could tell he was using again."

Greg looked at her incredulously.  "You _knew_ he was using?  Why didn't you say anything?"

"You know how Sherlock is.  I guess I was hoping I was misreading him."

Greg rubbed his temples, trying to abate his on-coming headache.  "Well, I am going to have to call his brother..."

"That won't be necessary, Detective Inspector."  Greg and Molly looked up to see Mycroft Holmes standing in the doorway, looking somewhat haggard despite his expensive 3-piece suit.  "Which room is my brother in?"

"Room 215."

"Thank you, Dr. Hooper.  Do you know if he's awake yet?"

"He's been unconscious since they brought him in a few hours ago," Greg responded.  "Molly said it was morphine?"

"Hm.  Interesting.  His use of that particular opiate is usually much more... controlled..."

Molly looked at him, "Do you think he was trying to kill himself?"

"It wouldn't be the first attempt," Mycroft frowned. 

Molly held her head in her hands as the tears came, and Greg pulled her closer.  "Shh... not your fault, love," he whispered to her, smoothing her hair.

Mycroft turned and walked down the hallway to Sherlock's room.

* * *

The room was silent, save for the whirring and beeping of medical machinery.  Mycroft sat down in the chair next to the bed, and looked at the sleeping patient.

"I know you can hear me, little brother.  Do you have a list?"

"Dressing gown pocket."  Sherlock spoke slowly.  "How did I get here?"

"Despite your best efforts, you still have people who care about you.  Dr. Hooper found you, and DI Lestrade arranged to have you brought in," Mycroft replied quietly.  He walked to the shelf where Sherlock's clothing had been placed, and rifled through the dressing gown, pulling out a piece of paper.

"Hrmph." Sherlock looked at the older man.  "I wish they had let me alone.  Alone is what protects me."

Mycroft looked at the list.  "You have had a busy week.  Based on this, I suspect 'alone' would have killed you, brother mine.  Or was that the plan?"

Sherlock closed his eyes and turned away from his brother. 

"I take that as a 'yes' then," Mycroft sighed.

"It would have been easier."

"For whom, exactly?  Dr. Hooper is sitting outside, a teary mess...  Lestrade is out there comforting her, but I don't doubt for a second that he'd beat some sense into you, given the chance...  not to mention the stress you have caused me..."

"They don't matter.  John matters."

"Dr. Watson has not been made aware of this situation, as far as I know."

"He doesn't care."  Sherlock turned his back on Mycroft, signaling the end of the conversation.

* * *

John looked up at the patient board by the nurse's station.  He was covering a couple of shifts at the hospital for his buddy David this weekend, since Rosie was staying with his parents and he didn't really want to sit at home in an empty flat. 

"Hey, Angela, who's in room 215?  There's no name on the board," John asked the blonde nurse by the coffee machine.

"I don't know, Dr. Watson.  All very hush-hush.  He's got his own security detail outside his room, even."

John blanched.  _Hush-hush... his own security detail... that sounds like..._ "When did he come in?"

"Sometime this morning, I think.  He was here when I came on shift at noon."

"Well, I guess I'll get to meet him when I make rounds," John muttered.  _I just hope it isn't who I think it is._

John started his rounds, saving Room 215 for last.  He was full of dread as he saw the man in the dark suit sitting outside the door. 

* * *

Mycroft looked up, and saw movement outside the door of the room.  "I will come back later, Sherlock," he said to the back of Sherlock's head, rising and heading toward the door.

He stopped in his tracks when his eyes met John's.

"He's in there, isn't he?"

"Yes, Dr. Watson."

"I'll find someone else.  I can't..."

"He needs your help, John." 

John looked at the elder Holmes curiously - he'd never used his first name before.

"This incident was, quite possibly, another suicide attempt."

John's eyes widened.  " _Another_ suicide attempt?  He's done this before?"

"Not with morphine, specifically, but yes, he has made similar attempts in the past."

"So that's what you meant by 'danger night', when we thought The Woman was dead."

"Yes."

"What triggered it this time?"

Mycroft raised an eyebrow and scowled.  "Surely, you know."

 _Molly must have given him my letter._   He pulled out his phone.

"Dr. Hooper and DI Lestrade are in the waiting area.  It might be better to speak to them directly, rather than via text."  John nodded in agreement, and started toward the waiting room.

"John -" Mycroft called out to him.

"Yeah?"

Mycroft handed him Sherlock's list.  "This information... might be useful for treatment."

John looked at the paper in his hand, and looked at Mycroft in horror.  "He took all of this?"

"So it seems.  My brother has never had a strong sense of self-preservation."

* * *

"John!  What are you doing here?" Lestrade exclaimed, as John walked into the waiting room.

"I work here, Greg."  John grinned weakly, waving the end of his stethoscope.  "You know, a doctor?"

Molly looked up at John, obviously stricken.  He walked up to her, and hugged her tight.  "It's OK, Molly."

"How is he doing, John?  Have you seen him?" Greg asked.

"I haven't yet.  Ran into Mycroft on the way.  I'm not sure I can -"

Molly grabbed his arm.  "I know you're angry with him, and you have every right to be, but he _needs_ you right now."

John looked away.  "Molly, I can't. I… I wished it is was him, not Mary.  I told him so in my letter."

"But Mary is gone.  She's not coming back.  Do you want to lose him, too?" Molly's wet eyes stared into his pleadingly.

John sat down heavily in the chair next to Lestrade.  "She's right, mate,” Lestrade said.  “Sherlock actually listens to you.  You can help him.”

Alarms started going off in the direction of Sherlock’s room.  John looked up to see a flurry of nurses running in that direction.  He jumped up and followed them.

“He’s had a seizure, Dr. Watson,” Angela said, as they converged on room 215.

John looked Sherlock, who lay deathly still on the bed, then at Mycroft.  “How long?”

“Clonic phase was approximately 2 minutes, Dr. Watson,” Mycroft quickly replied.  "He has had similar episodes in the past, during detox."

Sherlock opened his eyes, looking dazed, and started to sit up.  “John?”

“Lie down, Sherlock.  You’ve had a seizure,” John said quietly, checking Sherlock’s IV.

Sherlock put his head back on the pillow.  “What are you doing here?”

John shook his head.  “Why does everyone find it so strange that a doctor is working in a hospital?”

He checked Sherlock’s chart.  “Angela, let’s hold off on his next dose of Naloxone.  I’m concerned it may have caused the seizure.  We’ll just monitor him for now.”  He made a notation in the chart.

Once the crisis had passed, most of the nursing staff left the room, leaving just Angela, John, and Mycroft with Sherlock. 

"I can take care of things from here, Angela.  Why don't you take the patient's visitor" - he nodded at Mycroft - "down to the cafeteria for a cup of tea.  I would like to speak to the patient privately."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, nodded, and followed Angela out of the room.

The silence was deafening.  The men stared at each other, not speaking.

"You wish I'd succeeded," Sherlock said flatly.

John sat on the edge of the bed.  "You read my letter."

"Molly gave it to me last week."

"And then you went on this bender.  Even if you had succeeded, it still wouldn't bring Mary back."

"It's my fault Mary is dead."  Tears filled his eyes.  "You blame me."

John sighed.  "Mary died saving your life. It was her choice. That is not your fault."

"In saving my life, she conferred a value on it," Sherlock steepled his hands.  "It is a currency I do not know how to spend."

"Your life has value, Sherlock.  Even if you don't see it."  John stood and turned to face Sherlock.  "I've been there - ready to check out.  I can't tell you the number of times I sat on the edge of my bed, staring at my pistol.  But I thought about the people around me - my parents, my sister, Greg, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, even you - and was able to tackle another day.  I couldn't do it to them. To you."

Sherlock looked at him, speechless.

"You have people who care, too," John put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder.  "Don't take your life away from them.  From me."  John gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze.

* * *

Several days later, Sherlock was home again, sitting in his favorite chair, enjoying a cup of tea.  John sat across from him, deep in thought.

"Molly’ll be here in twenty minutes," John said, looking at his watch.  "I'd like to get home to Rosie a few minutes early, if that's OK."

"Oh, I do think I can last twenty minutes without supervision."

"Well, if you’re sure..." he stood up to leave.

"Can I come see Rosie soon?"

"Sure.  Maybe you and Mrs. Hudson can take her to the park tomorrow.  The fresh air would do you some good."

John took his cup to the kitchen, set it in the sink, then headed for the stairs.

"John - "

"Yes, Sherlock?" John stopped and turned back into the flat.

"Are you okay?"

John laughed derisively.  "I’m never going to be okay.  I'm a widower with a small child, who placed the blame for everything on my best friend, and nearly drove him to suicide.  No, I'm not okay.  But we’ll just have to accept that. It is what it is."

* * *

"Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson called up the stairs.  "John said you wanted to go to the park with us this afternoon.  Are you sure you're feeling up to it, dear?" Rosie was in her arms, cooing happily.

Sherlock appeared in the doorway.  For the first time since Mary's death, he was dressed in something other than a dressing gown, well-kempt, and clean-shaven... and obviously sober.    

Mrs. Hudson smiled, "My, it's good to see you up and about... back to your normal self?"

" _Normal_ has never been a word used to describe me, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock winked, as he walked down the stairs.  He put on his coat, and looked at Rosie.  "Good afternoon, Watson.  Shall we go?"

Much to his and Mrs. Hudson's surprise, Rosie reached out to him immediately.  He looked at Mrs. Hudson questioningly, and with her nod, took the baby into his arms.  Rosie giggled, and snuggled into the Belstaff.  Sherlock smiled as he rubbed her back absently.  

Mrs. Hudson looked at the pair approvingly.  "Do we need the pram?  Or do you want to carry her?"

"Oh, I think I can carry her.  It's not that far, after all."

The trio walked out the front door and headed down the street.  

* * *

 

John knocked on Mrs. Hudson's door lightly, not wanting to wake Rosie, since she was usually asleep when he came to pick her up after work.  He found the older woman in her kitchen, humming as she washed the dishes.  "Is Rosie down for her nap, Mrs. H?"

"Yes, John.  They're in the back room," she replied, her eyes dancing mischievously.

John raised an eyebrow.  " _They?_ "  He turned and walked into the back room. _  
_

There he found Sherlock laying on the couch, with Rosie sleeping soundly on his chest, his large hand on her back.  Sherlock looked up at John.  "I tried to put her down for a nap, but every time I put her down, she shrieks like a banshee.  This seems to be the only way to get her to sleep," he said quietly, so as not to wake the baby. 

John snickered.  "Well, it seems she likes you, despite everything.  That's a start."

"Now if only we could get Daddy to like me again," Sherlock whispered to the sleeping child, stroking her curls.

Sitting on the end of the couch, John smiled.   _This is my 'new normal' now._

 

 

 

 


End file.
